"Nonsense! try it on."
As well tell poor Jep to fly as to scale a perpendicular wall, and
that his tormenter knew. Oh! it was fun to him to hear the poor lad
run about and rave, the echoes catching every sorrowful tone, and
tossing them out to him, a legion of words. What a strange waywardness
is in the half of us, to find amusement in that which is another's
suffering! When at last master Ru let his prisoner out, with much ado,
pretended or real, the sun was past its meridian, and the sheep--ah!
the sheep--one, two, many of them were beyond the shepherd's tending
and doctoring.
"They must e'en die," said he before sundown, with tears in his
eyes--and that night Jep wept in the dewy orchard, one hand in wee
Margaret's, the other stroking Spottie, with a sore smarting back
and the squire's angry dismissal making his heart equally sore and
smarting. Master Ru received a reprimand, but then he was a spoilt only
son, and a gentleman, while Jep was a poor lad, and should have stuck
to duty--so said the squire.
This escapade was but the beginning of troubles, for, as the winter
deepened, Jep's father fell ill, and the squire frowned and fumed, and
never spoke civilly to Jep when he called at the cottage, where the lad
hung about in disgraced idleness.
"We shall have to sell Spottie!" said his mother, in her
downheartedness at the expense and poverty falling on her, and the
words hung like a weight at her son's heart. Sell Spottie! the
children's souls clung to him.
"Father, that pet lamb of Jep Sharp's is more mine than his, you know,"
is what the squire's son said to him about that time.
"No my son, I gave it to him, and a gift is a gift," spoke the squire
in his justice.
"Then buy him for me, father."
"I doubt if the lad would sell it," said the squire.
"Yes, he would; you could make him." His son was importunate; this was
his cry, morning, noon, and night; and, at last, his indulgent parent
walked to the cottage, to see what could be done.
"I want to buy your son's lamb for mine," said the great man, loftily,
to Jep's mother.
"I doubt if he'd sell it, squire; 'twould go hard with him if he did,"
returned she, her motherly heart throbbing fast.
"He's my father's already," put in young Ru.
"Nay, Sir, the creature was a gift to my son."
"And I offer a fair price for it, so it is doubly mine, as it were."
"Yes, but I can't say yes or no without speaking to the lad," pleaded
the gentle mother.
"Well, speak to him," returned squire Barlow, which she did, and the
boy shed such a torrent of tears over his pet, that night, when he shut
him up in the outhouse, as fairly to startle him.
Sorrowful days followed, after sending his refusal to the Hall, while
they waited, and dared not mention the matter to the shepherd, sick
nigh to death. And oh! frost and snow lay on the ground, but Spottie
nestled and revelled in his hay.
"If you refuse to sell the lamb, you quit my cottage," this was the
threat the angered squire sent them.
"The lad simply defies me--it is not the first ill turn he has played
me," so he reasoned in his blindness and loftiness, while poor Jep's
heart was well-nigh breaking. Still he never flinched or yielded, but
locked the innocent lamb into the outhouse, and carried the key in his
pocket.
"He'll be sending one of these days to take him away, and he shan't
have him--he can't know how I love him," so said the poor boy.
[Illustration: "SPOTTIE."]
"The squire's servant and Master Ru have been here, lad, for the lamb;
and they're coming again to-morrow, and'll burst the outhouse door
if ye lock him in. 'Tis all over, lad; ye mustn't resist--surely a
roof over your father's head is better than any lamb." These were his
mother's tidings, when he came in tired, after a long journey to the
doctor's for medicine, one cold spring evening, and Jep bowed his head.
"Mother, I must be with Spottie a while," said he, when it was time
for him and wee Margaret to go to bed; and then he stole out into the
outhouse, there in the cold and the darkness to weep and ponder over
his great trouble. Could he give the darling up? Could he? A sense of
wrong, of cruel injustice, made his heart bitter. He had locked himself
in, and well he had, for, as he wept, some one tried the outhouse door.
"I'd let it be till to-morrow, Master Ru: 'tis mean, and very like
thieving, to steal upon poor folk so, and try to break their locks."
It was James, the footman at the Hall, who spoke, and it was Ru who
answered him.
"Yes, and he's bound to let me have him, because of his sick father
and the house. You see we're offering him a good price, and 'tis my
father's lamb, you know."
"Yes; but maybe Jep doesn't think so; still, a fair price is a fair
price, and once the money is his, the lamb is yours," returned the
servant, and then there was silence again.
"I must e'en bear it like a man, for father's sake," said he, as he
stood at the door, under the quiet stars, locking his pet in for the
last time. And, on the morrow, before it was light, he led the lamb
away over the crisp, frosty grounds, his woolly coat wet with his and
Margaret's tears; but the boy was very calm and brave now, with his
great sorrow and resolve upon him.
"No, it shall be a free gift; I can't take money for Spottie," said he
to the footman, who came out to receive the unconscious animal, and
offered him the price of it.
It was very like a miserable dream, that the deed of separation was
done; but, anon, the spring smiled itself into bright, glowing days;
John Sharpe took to his shepherd duties again, and Jep worked in the
garden and longed for he knew not what. He heard that Master Ru had
tired of his pet, and that the lamb was to be washed and sheared
with the flocks, and then sold. Still, it came to both children as
a terrible reality, when they saw him driven down the lane, past
their cottage, to the place of shearing--their Spottie, who would
be so startled and terrified at rough handling. Their very hearts
seemed to cry out in their yearning, as they watched from afar the
poor creature's ordeal, his first shearing; and they shivered in
the night, as they heard the chill wind of early summer blow, and
thought of Spottie bereft of his coat. And on the morrow--ah! those
to-morrows, which sadden us or bring us gladness when we least expect
it--to-morrow, as they went along the shady lane, what should they espy
but Master Ru's pony riderless. No--yes, riderless, for he, poor lad,
was being dragged along by one foot in the stirrup, over the hard road.
"Oh, my!" cried Jep, and then he held his breath and felt ready to
die. Should he dash in and try to save him--he who had robbed him of
Spottie, only to tire of him and cast him off? Yes, yes--all that was
noble in the boy's soul cried--yes; and a low, soft voice stealing as
from afar whispered--yes; so he sprang to the rescue, as the horse came
up.
"Margaret, could ye dare to get near and loose his foot?" said he to
his scared little sister--and she dared, like the small brave woman she
was.
Once captured, the pony was gentle as a lamb. Jep tied him to a strong
hedge-stake, and then came to his prostrate master. The poor fellow was
in a sad maze of pain and half insensibility; it was not till the next
day that they were sure he was not seriously hurt. And then? Well, the
squire walked up to the shepherd's cottage, and made its inmates glad
with the words he spoke.
"I thank your children for what they did for my son, and he thanks them
also. I bought their lamb and never paid for it, which I do now, and
my son gives it back to them, as--as--" the proud man faltered, "as a
peace-offering, if you like to call it so; and Jep may take his old
place with the sheep."
Oh! the joyful bringing of meek Spottie to his home again. The poor
bewildered animal understood not the half of what was happening, but he
gazed gratefully around at them when they covered his shorn back with
Jep's jacket, thinking he must be cold.
"What did the squire call him, Jep--a peace-offering?" asked wee
Margaret.
"Yes, that's about the word."
"And what's that?"
"Some'at as makes all smooth and above board, you know, when everything
was wrong."
"Is it like"--an awe crept into the child's eyes and voice--"like
Jesus?"
"Ah, like him," returned Jep, soberly.
"Oh! Jep, and He's called a Lamb in the Bible."
Was this lamb of earth shadowing forth to the minds of the simple
children somewhat of the heavenly? If so, then the trouble that had
come to Spottie's master was not in vain. Certainly he was a bond
between the cottage and the Hall, and Jep was Master Ru's head shepherd
years afterwards, when John Sharp and his old master had passed away.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
BACKBONE.
[Illustration]
When you see a fellow mortal
Without fixed and fearless views,
Hanging on the skirts of others,
Walking in their cast off shoes,
Bowing low to wealth or favor,
With abject, uncovered head,
Ready to retract or waver,
Willing to be drove or led;
Walk yourself with firmer bearing,
Throw your moral shoulders back,
Show _your_ spine has nerve and marrow,
Just the things which his must lack.
A stranger word
Was never heard,
In sense and tone,
Than this _backbone_.
When you see a politician
Crawling through contracted holes,
Begging for some fat position,
In the ring or at the polls,
With no sterling manhood in him,
Nothing stable, broad or ballast,
Double-sided all around;
Walk yourself with firmer bearing,
Throw your moral shoulders back,
Show _your_ spine has nerve and marrow,
Just the things which his must lack.
A modest song and plainly told--
The text is worth a mine of gold;
For many men most sadly lack,
A noble stiffness in the back.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A DOG SHEEP-STEALER.
[Illustration]
Sir Walter Scott immortalized the sagacity of a dog named Yarrow, who
was the accomplice of his master, Millar, a shepherd, and of Murdison,
a farmer, in the sheep-stealing expeditions which they carried on, more
than a century ago, in the Tweed country. All that Millar had to do was
to show Yarrow during the day the sheep which were to be stolen, and
at night the dog made straight for the flock, got together the marked
members of it, and drove them by roundabout paths to Murdison's farm.
Two things were particularly remarkable. In the first place, if Yarrow
when thus employed met his master, he observed the utmost caution in
recognizing him, lest he might make him the object of suspicion;
in the second, the dog seemed to have an idea that his practice was
dishonest, and that darkness was the fittest season for such deeds. In
the event of the sheep proving unwilling to leave their pasture, Yarrow
would use every effort to urge them onwards, but whenever day began to
break, he abandoned the attempt.
The dog was said to have been hanged with his master, for
sheep-stealing, but Sir Walter Scott states that this was not the case,
and that he survived Millar a long time, though he did not exhibit any
of his wonderful instinct when in his second master's possession. Of
course it was a great crime to put his skill to such a bad use, but
there can be no doubt that Yarrow's sagacity fully justified Sir Walter
in describing him as an "accomplished" dog.
[Illustration]
To persevere in one's duty, and to be silent, is the best answer to
calumny.
GEORGE WASHINGTON.
[Illustration]
IF WE KNEW.
PHOEBE CARY.
If we knew the woe and heartache
Waiting for us down the road,
If our lips could taste the wormwood,
If our backs could feel the load--
Would we waste the day in wishing
For a time that ne'er can be;
Would we wait in such impatience
For our ships to come from sea?
If we knew the baby fingers
Pressed against the window pane,
Would be cold and stiff to-morrow--
Never trouble us again--
Would the bright eyes of our darling
Catch the frown upon our brow?
Would the prints of rosy fingers
Vex us then as they do now?
[Illustration]
Ah, those little ice-cold fingers,
How they point our memories back
To the hasty words and actions
Strewn along our backward track!
How those little hands remind us,
As in snowy grace they lie,
Not to scatter thorns, but roses,
For our reaping by and by.
Strange we never prize the music
Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown!
Strange that we should slight the violets
Till the lovely flowers are gone!
Strange that summer skies and sunshine
Never seemed one-half so fair,
As when winter's snowy pinions
Shake their white down in the air!
Lips from which the seal of silence
None but God can roll away,
Never blossomed in such beauty
As adorns that mouth to-day;
And sweet words that freight our memory
With their beautiful perfume,
Come to us in sweeter accents
Through the portals of the tomb.
Let us gather up the sunbeams,
Lying all around our path;
Let us keep the wheat and roses,
Casting out the thorns and chaff;
Let us find our sweetest comfort
In the blessings of to-day,
With a patient hand removing
All the briers from our way.
HOLIDAY SONG.
D. BETHUNE DUFFIELD.
Hurrah for the school-boy's happy lot,
The school-girl's sunny hours,
And the holidays that fill with praise
This happy land of ours;
[Illustration]
Hurrah for the old year rolling out,
The new year rolling in,
For tasks well done and a race well run,
And sports we now begin;
Hurrah for the winter's frosty days,
And stormy winds that blow
In echoes loud from the driving cloud,
That sheds the Christmas snow;
Hurrah, once more for the school-boy's lot,
The school-girl's sunny hours,
And the holidays that fill with praise
This happy land of ours.
[Illustration]
A QUEER DUCKLING.
[Illustration]
How beautiful looked everything out in the fields! It was summer, and
the corn was yellow, the oats were green, the hay-ricks were standing
in the verdant meadows, and the stork was walking about on his long,
red legs, chattering away in Egyptian--the language he had learned
from his lady-mother. The corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by
large forests, in the middle of which lay deep lakes. Oh! it was lovely
indeed to walk abroad in the country just then.
In a sunny spot stood an old country-house, encircled by canals.
Between the wall and the water's edge there grew huge burdock-leaves,
that had shot up to such a height that a little child might have stood
upright under the tallest of them; and this spot was as wild as though
it had been situated in the depths of a wood.
In this snug retirement a duck was sitting on her nest to hatch her
young: but she began to think it a wearisome task, as the little ones
seemed very backward in making their appearance; besides, she had but
few visitors; for the other ducks preferred swimming about in the
canals, instead of being at the trouble of climbing up the slope, and
then sitting under a burdock leaf to gossip with her.
At length one egg cracked, and then another. "Peep! peep!" cried they,
as each yolk became a live thing, and popped out its head.
"Quack! quack!" said the mother, and they tried to cackle like her,
while they looked all about them under the green leaves; and she
allowed them to look to their hearts' content, because green is good
for the eyes.
"How large the world is, to be sure!" said the young ones. And truly
enough, they had rather more room than when they were still in the
egg-shell.
"Do you fancy this is the whole world?" cried the mother. "Why, it
reaches far away beyond the other side of the garden, down to the
parson's field; though I never went such a distance as that! but are
you all there?" continued she, rising. "No, faith! you are not; for
there still lies the largest egg. I wonder how long this business is to
last--I really begin to grow quite tired of it." And she sat down once
more.
"Well, how are you getting on?" inquired an old duck, who came to pay
her a visit.
"This egg takes a deal of hatching," answered the sitting duck, "it
won't break; but just look at the others, are they not the prettiest
ducklings ever seen? They are the image of their father, who,
by-the-bye, does not trouble himself to come and see me."
"Let me look at the egg that won't break," quoth the old duck. "Take
my word for it, it must be a guinea-fowl's egg. I was once deceived
in the same way, and I bestowed a deal of care and anxiety on the
youngsters, for they are afraid of water. I could not make them take
to it. I stormed and raved, but it was of no use. Let's see the egg.
Sure enough, it is a guinea-fowl's egg. Leave it alone, and set about
teaching the other children to swim."
"I'll just sit upon it a bit longer," said the duck; "for since I have
sat so long, a few days more won't make much odds."
"Please yourself," said the old duck, as she went away.
At length the large egg cracked. "Peep! peep!" squeaked the youngster,
as he crept out. How big and ugly he was, to be sure! The duck looked
at him, saying: "Really this is a most enormous duckling! None of the
others are like him. I wonder whether he is a guinea-chick after all?
Well, we shall soon see when we get down to the water; for in he shall
go, though I push him in myself."
On the following morning the weather was most delightful, and the sun
was shining brightly on the green burdock-leaves. The mother duck took
her young brood down to the canal. Splash into the water she went.
"Quack! quack!" cried she, and forthwith one duckling after another
jumped in. The water closed over their heads for a moment; but they
soon rose to the surface again, and swam about so nicely, just as if
their legs paddled them about of their own accord; and they had all
taken to the water; even the ugly, gray-coated youngster swam about
with the rest.
"Nay, he is no guinea-chick," said she, "only look how capitally he
uses his legs, and how steady he keeps himself--he's every inch my
own child! And really he's very pretty when one comes to look at him
attentively. Quack! quack!" added she; "now come along, and I'll take
you into high society, and introduce you to the duck-yard; but mind you
keep close to me, that nobody may tread upon you; and above all, beware
of the cat."
They now reached the farm-yard, where there was a great hubbub. Two
families were fighting for an eel's head, which, in the end, was
carried off by the cat.
"See, children, that's the way with the world!" remarked the mother
of the ducklings, licking her beak, for she would have been very glad
to have had the eel's head for herself. "Now, move on!" said she,
"and mind you cackle properly, and bow your head before that old duck
yonder; she is the noblest born of them all, and is of Spanish descent,
and that's why she is so dignified; and look! she has a red rag tied
to her leg, which is the greatest mark of distinction that can be
bestowed upon a duck, as it shows an anxiety not to lose her, and that
she should be recognized by both beast and man. Now cackle--and don't
turn in your toes; a well-bred duckling spreads his feet wide apart,
like papa and mamma, in this sort of way. Now bend your neck and say
'Quack!'"
[Illustration: "WHAT A QUEER LOOKING CHAP ONE OF THE DUCKLINGS IS TO BE
SURE!"]
The ducklings did as they were bid; but the other ducks, after looking
at them, only said aloud; "Now look! here comes another set, as if we
were not numerous enough already. And bless me! what a queer looking
chap one of the ducklings is to be sure--we can't put up with him!" And
one of the throng darted forward and bit him in the neck.
"Leave him alone," said the mother, "he did no harm to anyone."
"No; but he is too big and uncouth," said the biting duck, "and
therefore he wants a thrashing."
"Mamma has a sweet little family," said the old duck with the rag about
her leg; "they are all pretty except one, who is rather ill-favored. I
wish mamma could polish him a bit."
"I'm afraid that will be impossible, your grace," said the mother of
the ducklings. "Its true, he is not pretty, but he has a very good
disposition, and swims as well, or perhaps better than all the others
put together. However, he may grow prettier, and perhaps become
smaller; he remained too long in the egg-shell, and therefore his
figure is not properly formed." And with this she smoothed down the
ruffled feathers of his neck, adding: "At all events, as he is a male
duck, it won't matter so much. I think he'll prove strong, and be able
to fight his way through the world."
"The other ducklings are elegant little creatures," said the old duck.
"Now, make yourself at home; and if you should happen to find an eel's
head, you can bring it to me."
And so the family made themselves comfortable.
But the poor duckling who had been the last to creep out of his
egg-shell, and looked so ugly, was bitten, pushed about, and made
game of, not only by the ducks, but by the hens. They all declared he
was much too big; and a guinea-fowl who fancied himself at least an
emperor, because he had come into the world with spurs, now puffed
himself up like a vessel in full sail and flew at the duckling, and
blustered till his head turned completely red, so that the poor little
thing did not know where he could walk or stand, and was quite grieved
at being so ugly that the whole farm-yard scouted him.
Nor did matters mend the next day, or the following ones, but rather
grew worse and worse. The poor duckling was hunted down by everybody.
Even his sisters were so unkind to him, that they were continually
saying, "I wish the cat would run away with you, you ugly creature!"
While his mother added: "I wish you had never been born!" And the ducks
pecked at him, the hens struck him, and the girl who fed the poultry
used to kick him.
So he ran away, and flew over the palings. The little birds in the
bushes were startled, and took wing. "That is because I am so ugly,"
thought the duckling as he closed his eyes, though he ran on further
till he came to a large marsh inhabited by wild ducks. Here he spent
the whole night--and tired and sorrowful enough he was.
On the following morning when the wild ducks rose and saw their new
comrade, they said: "What sort of a creature are you?" Upon which the
duckling greeted them all round as civilly as he knew how.
"You are remarkably ugly," observed the wild ducks, "but we don't care
about that so long as you do not want to marry into our family." Poor,
forlorn creature! He had truly no such thoughts in his head. All he
wanted was to obtain leave to lie among the rushes, and drink a little
of the marsh water.
He remained there for two whole days, at the end of which there came
two wild geese, or more properly speaking, goslings, who were only just
out of the egg-shell, and consequently very pert.
"I say, friend," quoth they, "you are so ugly, that we should have
no objection to take you with us for a traveling companion. In the
neighboring marsh there dwell some sweet, pretty female geese, all of
them unmarried, and who cackle most charmingly. Perhaps you may have a
chance to pick up a wife amongst them, ugly as you are."
Pop! pop! sounded through the air, and the two wild goslings fell dead
amongst the rushes, while the water turned as red as blood. Pop! pop!
again echoed around, and whole flocks of wild geese flew up from the
rushes. Again and again the same alarming noise was heard.
It was a shooting party and the sportsmen surrounded the whole
marsh, while others had climbed into the branches of the trees that
overshadowed the rushes. A blue mist rose in clouds and mingled with
the green leaves, and sailed far away across the water; a pack of dogs
next flounced into the marsh. Splash, splash they went, while the reeds
and rushes bent beneath them on all sides.
What a fright they occasioned the poor duckling! He turned away his
head to hide it under his wing, when lo! a tremendous looking dog, with
his tongue lolling out, and his eyes glaring fearfully, stood right
before him, opening his jaws and showing his sharp teeth, as though he
would gobble up the poor little duckling at a mouthful!--but splash!
splash! on he went without touching him.
"Thank goodness!" sighed the duckling, "I am so ugly that even a dog
won't bite me."
And he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes, and
pop after pop echoed through the air.
It was not till late in the day that all became quiet, but the poor
youngster did not yet venture to rise, but waited several hours before
he looked about him, and then hastened out of the marsh as fast as he
could go. He ran across fields and meadows 'till there arose such a
storm that he could scarcely get on at all.